


The Viewing

by A_Fine_Piece



Series: A Thin Red Line [6]
Category: Bleach
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Conspiracy, F/M, Friendship, Gen, Married Couple, Siblings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-12
Updated: 2014-05-12
Packaged: 2018-01-24 11:40:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,750
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1603823
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/A_Fine_Piece/pseuds/A_Fine_Piece
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Byakuya celebrates his promotion.  Rukia goes to a party and runs into several interesting colleagues along the way.  Hisana and Aizen have a brief tête-à-tête.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Viewing

Tonight, he holds his wife tightly against his chest. 

She smells a heady mixture of gardenia and exertion, and he is quick to inhale another breath. He pulls it deep into his lungs, where he allows it to linger.  Her perfume rouses him, intoxicates him, but, mostly, it reminds him of just how close he came to _losing_ her. 

So close. 

Only a hairsbreadth. 

She could have been a memory.  Should’ve been a memory.  But she isn’t.  She is there, lying warm and very much alive in his arms. 

Her silken hair is glossy and lustrous now.  It wasn’t then.  Not two years ago.  It was dull, breaking.  She was dull, breaking, crumbling, threatening to turn into ash in his arms. 

Everything would have turned to ash had she passed.  Forever locked in the past, he would have been bound to the dead more readily than the living.  There was no one else for him, not after her.  The bond that kept his heart beating would have shattered.  He would have become a phantom, embodying only what those around him wished to see—duty, honor, pride, but never humanity.  No, her death would have stripped him of his humanity, and, laid bare, he would have become nothing more than idealism imprisoned. 

Idealism imprisoned by grief.

But, he isn’t idealism imprisoned by grief, and his heart is not locked away in the past.  It beats, strong and hard, and the bonds that keep his heart beating have steadily grown, and those bonds will continue to grow with her at his side.

She stirs in his arms.

He could’ve sworn she was slumbering.  Her breathing was so soft, so gentle, and she hardly moved.  But, she was awake all along.  Gazing into the middle distance, no doubt, as she is so often prone to doing.  Has always done.  Likely, will always do. 

“Do not torture yourself, Lord Byakuya,” she murmurs, turning her head to get better view of him. 

Her look is sincere.  An empathetic color paints her visage, which immediately alerts him to her meaning:  _Don’t torture yourself on thoughts of the past._

He wants to tell her that he isn’t torturing himself with thoughts of his family.  Not tonight, at least.  He remembers the anniversary well, too well.  Two years ago on that day, he paid his family’s betrayal in blood. 

What she doesn’t know—what he will never tell her—is that he would gladly pay it again.

He adjusts his weight against the mound of pillows that cushion his back, and he pulls her tightly against him.  Words do not sound from his lips nor do they even draw from his chest into his throat.  Silence is the perfect antidote to the restrained fury he feels toward his family as he considers their treachery. 

It will not do.

She deserves more.

“Your proposal,” he begins, resting his chin on the top of her head.  Again, he inhales a deep perfumed breath, and he holds it. 

She glimpses him, “Lady Masuyo.”  She doesn’t have to complete the sentiment.  He knows, and she knows.  His aunt’s name has become shorthand for _suffering_.

He tilts his head to the side, eying her with a knowing look.  “It succeeded.”

Hisana’s lips curve up tensely as if she is preparing to say something deprecating, but she holds back.  She knows he will not stand for her to diminish her feats.  He never diminishes his, and he expects no less from her.  “It did,” she decides on objectivity at the last minute, removing any shred of accomplishment or pride from her voice. 

It isn’t in her nature to bask in the golden light of success.  She is too shrewd, too forward-thinking.  The proposal’s acceptance is but a small step in what will likely be a long iterative process—a process where failure casts a long shadow.

He watches her with a dreamy stare.  The sweet sensation of her reiatsu combines well with the alcohol coursing through him.  It lulls him into warm complacency, a state he rarely relishes except when in her company.

“You honor me,” she says, after a pregnant pause.  Her eyes soften, but the keen glint that sparks in her look remains.  Fire crackles in the depths of her gaze.  Always has.  It is a persistent sort of flame.  Neither her guilt nor his family could squelch it. 

He sees that same fire radiating in her sister’s eyes as well, and he wonders if it is an inherited trait.

“How do I honor you?” he asks in earnest. 

“Through your compassion, Lord Byakuya. I don’t know how I will ever repay the debt.”

His brows furrow, and his forehead creases at her language. 

It isn’t the first time that she has spoken of his love in terms of debt and arrearage.  It won’t be the last, he fears.  He certainly does not view his affection in such terms, and he would never keep an accounting, but, if he did, he is quite certain she gravely underestimates her value to him. 

“There are no more debts, Hisana.  Nor will there ever be.” 

End of discussion.

She squeezes her eyes shut briefly.  Pain colors her face.  Its shades are dark and brooding, but she is quick to counter it.  She is always swift to push down the remnants of guilt that continues to chip away at her heart like a deepening wound.  Briefly, he wonders how many scars mark her heart.  He wonders if their numbers exceed his own.   

Within moments, a playful smile breaks across her lips—the type of smile that lights up her entire face.   “We should celebrate,” she says, turning in his arms.  Her heart is noisy, beating in quick bursts against his chest. 

“I thought we were,” he murmurs, watching her intently. 

She gives him a knowing shake of her head.  “Can’t you hear it, Lord Byakuya?  The sounds of raucous merrymaking?”

Indeed, he hears the muted noise of drunken tongues and loud music that bleeds into his tranquil estate all the way from the center of the city. 

And, just how loud _must_ they be? he grouses to himself.  Surely, the Academy students and the men of the Gotei 13 could commemorate their accomplishments in a more tranquil _dignified_ fashion.

His wife’s lips turn up as if his disapprobation conforms to her expectations.  “I am sure they are expecting your presence.”  She spies him with a devious glance.  “You know I am correct.  You know you should go for just a few minutes.  Just for appearance’s sake.” 

Before he can protest, she pulls him to his feet. 

“Such a noble and handsome captain.  It would be cruel to deprive them of your company.”  Her voice is lilting, and she swings the door open in a sweeping gesture.

He doesn’t particularly _want_ to go.  Indeed, the thought of bearing the full brunt of the infernal noise only hinted at provokes a sense of _dread_ deep within him. 

The merrymaking is mostly for the student’s sake, to celebrate their last examination before their fates are sealed.  Most of the Shinigami attend for the free alcohol and food.  What purpose would his presence serve?

“I know what you are thinking,” Hisana begins, shaking her head as she reads the lines of his countenance with disturbing accuracy, “you _think_ the celebration is for the graduating academy students but that’s where you are _wrong_ , my dear husband.  It is for the students _and_ the newly promoted.”

Sometimes he loathes that she fancies him so transparent.

“Also,” she begins, leveling her shoulders and placing her hands on her hips, “as Captain of the Sixth, it is only proper to meet the future faces of your division.”

His eyes narrow into a frosty stare.  A silent protest—one that would send most sane men on their heels in a hurry.

 _She_ , however, chuckles. Years of being on the receiving end of his glacial expressions have inoculated her. This, too, perturbs him.

Hisana lifts her head, and, without his consent, implied or explicit, her deft fingers begin to piece him back together.  “Come, now,” she urges him with a soft voice and an even softer touch. 

When and where did he lose control? 

Had his hardened stares _ever_ affected her?

He doesn’t say a word as she tenderly begins to clothe him in his vestments.  Her hands are swift, knowing each tie and every knot from years of diligent study.  Eagerly, her slender fingers smooth the wrinkles from the fall of his haori. 

Tilting her head to the side and giving him a careful onceover, she announces with great pride, “You look regel.”

Her flattery, however, has no effect on him.  He stares miserably down at her.  _Is this necessary?_

She answers his unspoken question with a resolute nod:  _Absolutely_. 

* * *

 

 _SLAM_.

Rukia startles at the sharp cracking sound of glass hitting wood, and she wheels around in the direction of the harrowing noise.  With heart throbbing in her throat and her muscles locking in icy tension, she watches the strange exchange, trying her best to make sense of it all.

“Go right ahead!”  A woman, with ample bosom and a head full of luscious blonde curls, announces.  Determination burns in her clear blue eyes.  “If you think your _delicate_ constitution can handle it.”  She plops down on a rickety chair, and, swishing a pink scarf around her shoulders with one hand, she pours a generous amount of sake into a cup with her other hand. 

The object of her … _ire?_ … flounces at the challenge.  He is a tall slender man with a jaw-length bob and … _feathers?_... attached to his right eyebrow and eyelashes.  “Don’t make me laugh,” he scoffs, folding his arms indignantly across his chest.  “How _unlovely_ ,” he says and jerks his chin to the right. 

 _What is happening?_   Rukia wonders, halting mid stride. 

Her gaze and interest deepens, and she takes solace at the fact that a sizable crowd has gathered around the table.  The crowd comprises mostly _men_.  Strong-jawed men with brutal looks and bulky builds.  Men with _megaton_ spiritual power, Rukia observes as her gaze flits to her new _companions_. The reiatsu just roils over her.  It is oppressive, suffocating almost, but it doesn’t deter her.  She can’t take her eyes off the exchange.

Another man emerges.  He is tall and lean with a shaved head and angular, narrow features.  With a male brusqueness, he kicks back a chair.  He drops down on the wooden seat, and it squeals in protest.  Never matter.  Adjusting his weight to make up for the wobble of the chair’s legs, he sits, open-legged, and slouches over the table.  “I’ll shut her up,” he announces with boundless confidence. 

“At least a challenge,” she retorts, eying the man with the bob and feathers; the unspoken sentiment is clearly: _Unlike you_. 

The Shinigami with the bob bristles, but he keeps his eyes trained on the proceeding.  “Take her, Ikkaku,” he growls, flipping his hair in the most malevolent act of _preening_   Rukia has ever witnessed.

Pouring himself a cup, _Ikkaku_ and the busty woman raise their glasses, and, in a violent motion, they throw back their drinks and slam their cups down on the table.  Comrades, dutiful and fervent, refill the cups.

Rukia’s eyes widen at the spectacle. 

She has seen drinking games in the past.  The brutish men in Inuzuri would engage in the behavior whenever they had extra money to burn.  But, even in Inuzuri, where violent iniquities were the order of the day, did the men embrace their drinking games with this level of _commitment_ and reckless _zeal_.  The drinking game at hand is aggressive and performed with the ceremony of a battle. 

 _Oh, gods,_ Rukia shudders, _Will I be expected to outdrink men at the Thirteenth?_   Her heart flutters at the thought.  If so, she better get to practicing because, from the looks of it, she will have some pretty stiff competition.  The prospect seems entirely too plausible especially since the woman, who appears to be edging out the male Shinigami in her love of sake, has all the _appearance_ of feminine virtue.  She is thin, well endowed, meticulously groomed, and unquestionably attractive.  She even _accessorizes_ —a pink scarf flutters and snaps around her shoulders with each tip of her head, and a beaded necklace dips into her cleavage.

Rukia doesn’t even _accessorize_. 

“Rukia?”

She doesn’t hear her name.  The strange rhythm of drinks being poured and then summarily downed hypnotizes her.  Just how many can they consume?  She wonders.  How long can they go?  She thinks she counts ten—no, now eleven—wait, thirteen drinks!  And, neither one shows any signs of inebriation or stopping, for that matter. 

How strange.  Engrossing, but strange.

“Rukia.”

Twenty, she counts, and neither appear to be fazed.

How, again, are they _not_  spilling onto the floor?

“Rukia!”

She jumps up at the intensity of her name burning in her ears.  “Ugh,” she mumbles, turning to find Renji and Momo standing right behind her.

“What are _you_ doing?” Renji asks and shoots her a questioning onceover. 

“I-ugh, I,” Rukia’s gaze, however, betrays her before she has the chance to explain. 

Renji leans in to see what she is watching.  “Ah,” he says as if it is completely _normal_.  Expected, even.

“Vice Captain Matsumoto of the Tenth,” Momo whispers, drawing close to Rukia and nodding her head in the blonde’s direction, “and Third Seat Madarame of the Eleventh.”

Rukia’s eyes widen.  _Oh.  Well that explains the sheer amount of reiatsu_.  Reflexively, she pans the crowd, ever growing, that has assembled to watch the game.

“Mostly the Eleventh’s men,” Momo notes astutely.  “They are very strong.”

“Yes,” Rukia murmurs.  She got that part.  Loud and clear.

“Come,” Momo says politely, and, looping her arm around Rukia’s, the pair moves to a more private space.  Renji, however, continues to watch the game, somewhat intrigued, somewhat horrified. 

“When do you begin your duties at the Thirteenth?” Momo asks.  Excitement courses through her voice as she eyes Rukia. 

“A few days,” Rukia murmurs, hoping to hide her anxiety.  Her eyes flick to Momo, who serenely stares ahead.  “And Match Day?”

“Two days,” Momo says, shivering.  “I am so nervous.”

“Which division do you—”

Before Rukia can complete her question, Momo bursts in with, “Five,” and her cheeks immediately go pink.

Rukia can’t help but smile.  “Captain Aizen and Vice Captain Ichimaru, right?”  She doesn’t know _much_ about each division and its culture, but she does know about the famed Aizen and Ichimaru from Renji. 

Momo nods her head in a clear attempt to leash her enthusiasm.  “Captain Aizen seems so…”

Powerful?

Cunning?

Like the _monster_ that Renji described?

“…ethical.”

Rukia’s brows lower over a confused stare.  “Oh.”  Clearly, she was not anticipating _that_ response. 

Momo’s eyes drop to the floor.  “Sounds strange, I know.  But, after taking his calligraphy class and hearing him discuss his scholarly pursuits, it just seems like he would be such a great teacher.  I mean, all the captains are _strong_ , right?  But, he seems centered and balanced.”

Rukia nods approvingly because she has no other response.  She has never met either Aizen or Ichimaru, and neither her brother nor sister speaks of the Fifth.  At least, not around her.  Renji, certainly, has never waxed philosophical about Captain Aizen.  But, then, she suspects Renji would never wax philosophical.  Ever.  About anything.  Wouldn’t seem productive from his perspective.  Renji was all about the struggle and being in the moment.  Instinct over rigid logic. 

“Lady Rukia, please meet Vice Captain Ise,” Momo announces suddenly before bowing. 

Rukia stops dead and dumbfounded.  She has never seen this woman before.  _Oh_.  _A Vice Captain…_   Bowing, Rukia wracks her brain.  _Which division.  Ise, Ise, Ise..._

She’s got _nothing_. 

Quickly, she catches a glimpse of the Vice Captain’s arm badge.  _Eighth.  Good to know._

“Good evening,” Rukia manages, although, rather _belatedly_.

“Vice Captain Ise and I are in a book club together,” Momo announces, and the woman gives a slight nod of her head.

 _Sounds great_ , Rukia thinks.  She likes books.  Reads them all the time.  “Oh, how nice,” she murmurs, sounding a little flat in her delivery.  Immediately, she overcompensates with a wide grin and a bright wide-eyed look.  

 _Fake it until you make it, right?_    How much Rukia wishes she believed those words.

“Lady Rukia just received her rank at the Thirteenth,” Momo says to Ise.

“Excellent,” the Vice Captain replies, and, before Rukia can speak words of gratitude, the Vice Captain immediately cuts in, “You should join the Shinigami Women’s Association.”

 _Shinigami Women’s Association_ , the words echo in Rukia’s head.  _That a thing?_  

“Oh, what does the Association do?”

“Its mission is to ensure the improvement of all Shinigami.”

 _Then, why is it called the Shinigami Women’s Association?_  Rukia wonders.  _And, is there a Shinigami Men’s Association?_   Too many questions.

“They are starting a new fundraiser,” Momo pipes up.

Ise nods.  “Yes, we are planning on producing Captain Photobooks.”  The Vice Captain adjusts her glasses on the bridge of her nose.  The lenses glint as they catch the dim overhead lighting.

Rukia smiles weakly.  “Oh, that sounds interesting.”  Something about Ise’s stare, which is partially veiled by the light reflecting in her glasses, seems predatory, and Rukia isn’t sure why.  Not yet, anyway.  But she has a feeling that the reason is fast coming. 

“Lord Kuchiki has just been installed as the new Captain of the Sixth,” Ise begins.

 _What?_   Rukia’s brows furrow.  _He has?_ She doesn’t _remember_ seeing him donning the white captain’s haori.  But, then, again, she hasn’t seen him since the morning, when he was still dressed in his casual wear. 

“Do you think Captain Kuchiki would be amiable to posing for pictures?

The real reason emerges, and Rukia wants to laugh.  Hard. 

The word, “no,” does not even begin to capture the visceral churning that hammers her stomach.  Restraining her urge to chuckle, Rukia merely smiles.  “I don’t know,” she manages in her most diplomatic of tones. 

Secretly, she cannot wait to break the news to her sister.  Hisana, at least, will appreciate the mental image of a group of earnest-faced female Shinigami _asking_ Byakuya to pose for a photobook. 

Momo gives Rukia a kind reassuring glance.  “Lord Kuchiki seems very private,” she observes gently to Ise.  “Perhaps he isn’t the best subject.”

Ise’s gaze drifts to Rukia as if she is _waiting_ for Rukia to offer some sort of assurance. 

 _Oh. Yeah_ , Rukia thinks, _I am officially a Shinigami, which makes me officially below a Vice Captain, which officially makes me below the Vice Captain currently staring down at me_...  “I could ask Sister.  If anyone could get him to agree, it would be Sister,” Rukia says sheepishly, knowing all too well that not even her sister could convince Byakuya to submit to something so trifling as posing for a photobook.  Rukia, however, is sure that Hisana, despite knowing better, would ask for her sake.

“Thank you, Lady Rukia,” Ise says, bowing slightly.  “Come,” she murmurs to both Momo and Rukia.  Tilting her head to a small display, the Vice Captain continues, “The SWA has a booth set up over here.  You can fill out the requisite paperwork.”

Eagerly, Momo gives a sharp nod of her head and pulls Rukia along.  

* * *

 

“You came!” Ginjirō Shirogane cries upon spotting his Captain.  Holding his young daughter, Mihane, tightly in his arms, he continues, “How wonderful for you to honor us with your presence, Captain!”  He gives a small bow.  “Isn’t that great, Mihane?” he asks the bleary-eyed child.  Her gaze, unfocused, drifts from Byakuya to Hisana, before she drops her head back against her father’s shoulder.

“Good evening, Shirogane,” Byakuya states in his usual deadpan voice.

Hisana bows slightly.  “It is lovely to see both of you again, especially little Mihane.”  Her voice is bright like a summer day, which draws the little girl’s attention. 

Mihane’s gaze roams Hisana as if she has a vague memory of the woman.  Staring a little longer before she makes her final decision, she extends her hand out.  Her little fingers curl in the air before closing. 

Hisana is quick to read the child’s intentions and steps closer.  

“Oh, Lady Kuchiki, you don’t have to,” Ginjirō murmurs half-heartedly. 

“It is perfectly alright,” Hisana reassures him as she takes Mihane in her arms.  The little girl is pliant and quickly molds against Hisana’s body.  Reflexively, Mihana snuggles against the curve of Hisana’s neck.

“The nanny called in ill, and with,” his voice trails off, the moment Hisana shakes her head.  She knows.  Everybody knows.  Neither Ginjirō nor Mihane has taken well to the sudden loss in their family.  Like a thief in the night, Ginjirō's wife's life was extinguished only a few months ago.  It is a toll that has punished father and daughter beyond the measure of words or emotion. 

Patting the little girl’s back, Hisana smiles down fondly at the bundle.  “Mihane and I are going to find all kinds of trouble, aren’t we?” she teases.

“Unlikely,” Byakuya states drily.  His intelligent eyes observe the child’s slumbering state. 

“Well, I certainly can make up for Mihane’s share,” Hisana murmurs and gives a playful wink in Ginjirō’s direction.  Taking a small step back, Hisana smiles sweetly, saying, “Us ladies will leave you men to discuss the intricacies of saving the world.”

Ginjirō bows his head and musters a smile; it is a melancholy sort of smile, as if a memory of his wife plays in his head.  “Thank you, Lady Kuchiki,” he murmurs before turning to his captain. 

Byakuya’s eyes remain glued to Hisana, and the corners of his lips slope down.  A strange sense of displeasure sinks him as he watches her leave with a child in her arms.  A child…  His eyes narrow, and he considers his wife’s intentions as she flits like a blossom caught on a stray wind to a group of noblewomen.  One of Jūshirō’s sisters welcomes his wife with a breezy look and a warm smile.  Hisana shifts Mihane on her hip and makes easy conversation with the woman.

 _A diversion_ , Byakuya considers, but, as he watches a moment longer, he draws a very different conclusion.   _A shield._  

Indeed, Hisana uses Mihane to shield herself from unwanted attention, particularly of the business variety.

He doubts that her gambit will succeed for long.  Male ambition is not so easily thwarted.

“I selected the first round of hopefuls,” Ginjirō’s voice pulls Byakuya’s attention.  “The names are on your desk.”

“Three rounds, correct?” Byakuya observes.  He never faced the grueling matching process, and, accordingly, the details always elude him. 

“Three rounds, my Captain,” Ginjirō confirms.  “The final choices are due in two days.”

Byakuya nods to himself.  “A promising field?”

Ginjirō’s lips pull into a straight line.  Diplomacy clearly ties his tongue into a Gordian knot.  “The usual,” he says at length.

“Oh, come now!” Jūshirō announces gently.  Without so much as a trace of the man’s immense spiritual pressure to warn them of his presence, he folds himself into the conversation.  He greets both Byakuya and Ginjirō with a warm look and an acknowledging bow of his head. “The current crop of hopefuls is more competitive than the last.  Each year the talent becomes more and more impressive.”

Always so hopeful, Byakuya thinks to himself of Jūshirō. 

“And, congratulations are in order, Captain Kuchiki,” Jūshirō begins, “My Vice Captain informs me that your sister turned out a very inspired performance today.”

Byakuya’s brows knit.  He had completely forgotten about Rukia’s test.  He shouldn’t have as he trained with her that morning.  It simply had slipped his mind with all the commotion.  “Very well,” Byakuya states, maintaining his usual stoic expression.  He hides his pleasure well enough.  His moment of mixed clarity, however?  Not so well.

“I take it that Rukia has not mentioned it to you,” Jūshirō observes astutely. 

“No.  I have not seen her since this morning.”

The Captain of the Thirteenth smiles politely.  “I will let her break the news, then.”  He gives a small brotherly nod of his head before turning to Ginjirō.  “Congratulations are also in order for you as well!  On opening your new business.”

Oh, yes. 

The sunglass emporium. 

Byakuya remembers Ginjirō speaking of the enterprise endlessly one day.  Out of a sense of pity (or, perhaps, self-preservation), Byakuya donated seed money to Ginjirō under the artifice of a “Vice Captain’s bonus.”  (No such thing exists.)  However, only a piece of him brims with satisfaction at the news of the business’s opening.  A larger part of him wishes the business were a more sensible one.  Who wears those aesthetic abominations, anyway?

“Sunglasses, eh?” Jūshirō asks, encouragingly.

“Yes, Captain.”

“I will have to stop in when I get the chance.”

“I would be greatly honored, Captain. Thank you.”  Ginjirō bows low, careful to express the full amount of his gratitude.

Jūshirō’s gaze then darts back to Byakuya.  “Where is your fairer half?”

Byakuya is just wondering the same question. 

With a sharp gaze, he scrutinizes the mass of bodies that assembles in the center square.  It is a zoo.  An absolute zoo, but, despite the waves of familiar and unfamiliar spiritual pressure crashing over him, he zeroes in on the unmistakable prickle of his wife’s power signature.  Narrowing his gaze, he finds her socializing with a small group of women.  Hisana is speaking merrily with one of Jūshirō’s younger sisters until she is interrupted by… 

Byakuya crooks his neck a degree to spy the object of his wife’s interest. 

Captain Sōsuke Aizen?

He immediately questions his perception.  Focusing his gaze, he finds his first assessment correct.  It is Aizen.  The telltale captain’s haori with the number “Five” emblazoned on the back unambiguously marks her new companion as the Captain of the Fifth. 

How strange, he thinks to himself as he watches his wife hand Mihane to Jūshirō’s sister. 

Hisana turns to Aizen with an uneasy look.  It is not apparent to most.  No, indeed, her expression of apprehension is likely inscrutable to all but Byakuya, but he can tell by the darkness in her gaze and the drop in her shoulders that she is perturbed. 

However, before Byakuya can determine what will happen next, his line of sight is obscured by none other than Gin Ichimaru. 

“Congratulations,” both Jūshirō and Ginjirō greet with pleasant voices and equally pleasant expressions. 

Byakuya, however, remains reticent to acknowledge Gin’s interruption. Instead, he glances around the newly minted Captain of the Third, but, alas, his wife has all but disappeared.  More worrying is that he cannot detect her _or_ Aizen.  “Congratulations, Captain Ichimaru,” he murmurs, frustrated at the ill-timed intrusion.

Gin bows his head politely in Byakuya’s direction.  “To you as well, Captain Kuchiki.  It seems that we are in the same class, now.”

Byakuya’s eyes narrow defensively.  He cannot help but scrutinize the words.  _Same class_.  Obviously, Gin means the same class of Captains, as they both were promoted at the same time.  But, there is an implication undulating slightly below his words and betraying the earnestness of his observation.

They are not _equals_ , Byakuya reminds himself pointedly.  They are hardly _peers_.  He, however, does not bother to correct Ichimaru’s subtle insult.  It would be poor form given the occasion.

“How fortuitous,” Byakuya replies instead, his voice edging on caustic.

“Perhaps we can have tea over the first and second round selections tomorrow afternoon,” Gin offers; however, his mien belies the disingenuousness of his proposal.  “Without a Vice Captain, the Third seems so _lonely_.” 

“Doesn’t that sound _lovely_ , Little Byakuya?” Jūshirō interjects, immediately cutting the tension with his wry levity.  “Going through those applications alone can be so taxing.”

Byakuya glares at his _former_ confidant.

Spending an afternoon locked away to sort through tedious applications and statistics with Gin Ichimaru or anyone, for that matter, does not sound _lovely_.  It sounds the _opposite_ of “lovely.”  It sounds _wretched_.

“I am planning on making my selections tonight,” Byakuya states firmly. 

_In the comfort of my estate, with my doting wife playing music to soothe my tortured nerves._

His diversion, however, greatly amuses Gin; the man’s smile, if possible, lengthens, and he buries a chuckle in the hem of his sleeve.  “Perhaps another time, then?” his smiling eyes skim the top of his sleeve.

Absolutely not.

“Perhaps,” Byakuya musters unconvincingly.

“Where is Captain Aizen?” Jūshirō asks before scanning the throng of party-goers. 

No matter Gin’s current affiliation, his association with the Fifth will always be fresh in everyone minds, an indelible memory:  Wherever there is Gin Ichimaru, there is Sōsuke Aizen.   The two have been inseparable for over a century. 

“Enjoying the flowers, I believe,” Gin answers in his slow Rukon drawl.

* * *

“The Central 46 Chambers reserved you for an ethics consult?”  Hisana tries her best to remove the mixture of confusion and skepticism from her voice.  She knows she failed when she sees Aizen’s gaze flicker to her for the briefest of moments.

“You sound surprised,” he observes serenely. 

Yeah, she is _surprised_.  It seems unlike the Central 46 to meddle in the affairs of the highborn.  (Or, in her case, highborn consorts.)  Stranger, yet, they chose to meddle by proxy. 

“I did not realize any of the projections or analyses required ethical consultation.”  They don’t.  Using the Twelfth’s behavior as precedence, the Central Chamber plays fast and loose with _ethics_ or _human rights violations_ for that matter.

Aizen offers her a comforting smile.  “I believe there was some concern regarding your plans to build infrastructure in portions of Rukongai.”

 _Interesting_.  “What may that concern be, Captain Aizen?  If you don’t mind my asking.”

He hesitates for a moment.

“Assuming such information isn’t privileged, of course,” Hisana notes gently.

“I don’t believe it is confidential or privileged, Lady Kuchiki.  I think some members expressed concern regarding the analytics system that will be used to monitor traffic and particular ‘hot spots,’ as they termed it.”

Hisana’s brows knit together at this.  Collecting information on the population density, immigration, and aggression levels does not seem particularly _unethical_.  The method of data collection is also harmless—an electronic monitoring system, the blueprints of which the Konoe family _generously_ promises to draft for their engineers. 

“How strange,” she murmurs, pensive. 

“It is likely they will require information on the device you plan to use.”

“Devices,” she corrects.  “Towers, to be specific.”

Aizen’s brows rise at this.  “Ah, I see there may be blueprints?”

Hisana shakes her head.  “Not formal ones.  You would need to speak to Tadahiro Konoe about the monitoring system.”

“If I may ask, what is the purpose of this proposal, Lady Kuchiki?”  Aizen’s gaze hovers over her, and, for a moment, she swears there is heat in his look, but, when she checks her assumption, she finds that he is wearing a very tranquil expression. 

“It is to expand enterprises into Rukongai,” her voice is soft but clinical.  No life flows through her words, and no heart throbs in her cadence at the pronouncement. 

“Is that your purpose for participating, Lady Kuchiki?” he asks quietly, knowingly. 

A sly glint shines in her gaze, and her lips curve into an impish grin.  “I desire to expand my family’s reach, Captain Aizen.  Any consequence to Rukongai is merely a side-effect of my wish to honor my husband.”

Aizen doesn’t believe her.  She can tell from the smirk that he so expertly attempts to hide.  Not that she blames him.  She didn’t find her performance particularly convincing either.

“Ah, I see,” he murmurs and thoughtfully pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose.  “It is merely the doctrine of double effect at issue, then.”

Hisana represses the urge to sigh.  As long as the pursuit of financial betterment is their priority, the foreseeable but _unjust enrichment_ of the poor is morally licit.  _Only the nobles could find the purposeful enrichment of the poor and vulnerable to be a serious infraction, worthy of intense scrutiny and contempt._   _Doctrine of double effect_ , she scoffs inwardly.  _To the contrary._

Pushing her violent thoughts aside and mollifying her enflamed temper, she musters a teasing smile.  “Now, you sound like my husband, Captain Aizen.”

“High praise,” he chuckles, “Captain Kuchiki is regarded as a paragon of high moral virtue.”

She smiles, but, before she can extend a word of gratitude, a booming male voice rolls over them like a thunder clap.  She freezes for a cold panicked moment, and, then, she turns to the direction from which the voice emanated.  “Lord Takatsukasa and Lord Konoe,” she murmurs, bowing low. 

“We should join them,” Aizen urges politely.

Hisana frowns at the prospect.  Taking a deep breath, she nods her head and begins in the direction of the clan heads.  “It is so lovely to see you both after such a productive day,” she says with an effortless smile.  “Captain Aizen,” she begins, gesturing to her new companion, “informs me that the Central 46 has commissioned an ethics survey for our proposal.”

She turns to glance up at Aizen.  Part of her expects some sort of reaction, but he stands politely acknowledging each lord in kind.  “Lady Kuchiki is correct in her understanding.”

Both Takatsukasa and Konoe exchange veiled glances.  “We were going to have drinks with several of the administrative staff members of the Central 46, if the two of you would like to join our small party, we would be honored,” Takatsukasa offers, eyes fixing Aizen.

Translation: The men were going to discuss business and, potentially, have a few drinks.

Hisana’s eyes immediately survey the crowd for her husband.  Part of her—the sinking part of her—thinks his presence is required.  It is his family business, after all.  _And…_  

“Perhaps Captain Kuchiki should,” Aizen begins, reading Hisana’s troubled glance. 

Hearing his voice, her head snaps up, and her eyes search the captain’s visage, but his glasses catch some stray lantern light and the glare blinds her. 

“No,” Tadahiro Konoe murmurs, watching Hisana with a predatory stare.  “It is quite alright.  Shiba is away on duty as well.  The Lady will suffice for tonight.”

Aizen bows his head, but Hisana is sure the captain, ever astute and renowned for his intellect, caught hints of the subtle fault line that undulate between the business partners.    The sudden fracture is plain as day to her, at least.

Hisana casts one last pleading stare in her husband’s direction, but he does not detect her.  He does not flinch.  He does not turn to her.

How she wishes he would. 


End file.
